


Starling

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-29 18:35:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21414778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Glorfindel asks for his hair to be braided.
Relationships: Glorfindel/Lindir (Tolkien)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 74





	Starling

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, The Silmarillion, or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

“Lindir?”

The young elf glances upwards, eyes wide when they realize who’s called him, and then he slowly rises to his feet, brushing off his robes. He seemed to be in the middle of smelling the flowers, which amuses Glorfindel greatly—it’s so good to see spirits who still enjoy the little things and can find beauty in the every day. Imladris’ gardens are truly beautiful, as is the elf who Glorfindel’s found amongst them. Lindir bows his head, his brown hair drifting down his shoulders, and when he straightens again, he asks, “How may I serve you, my lord?”

Glorfindel has never been fully comfortable with that phrase. He wishes he could say that he doesn’t ask for service at all, but he supposes that his question will lead to service. He answers, “I have heard that you are the one who braids Lord Elrond’s hair. I have always found it to be exquisitely done.” 

Lindir’s soft cheeks stain a subtle pink. The corner of his lips pinches—Glorfindel thinks he might be biting back a smile. His gaze lowers, and he murmurs, “Thank you, my lord. That is... very kind.”

Glorfindel nods. The compliment is well earned. Then he ventures, “I confess I was hoping I could tempt you to pay me the same honour.”

For a few passing seconds, Lindir looks surprised, then glad—he clearly doesn’t have the inner strength of a warrior, and emotions flitter across his face so easily: something that’s thoroughly delightful to watch. He’s walking art. He replies breathlessly, “No, it would be _my_ honour, my lord. I will do so whenever you should like.”

“Are you free now?”

The smile splits Lindir’s face. Glorfindel’s never seen someone so happy to do something so plain and monotonous, but Lindir looks around them, then rushes to a bench. Sitting himself down, he stares wistfully at Glorfindel, who can’t resist strolling towards him. Lindir’s cheer is infectious. It makes Glorfindel wonder why he’s never stopped to admire Elrond’s young assistant before. 

He turns his back to Lindir. His golden hair is as long as any other, though he has waves in it that few elves in Middle Earth seem to still possess. Currently, it’s loose—he’s never been particularly good at styling it himself. He feels a slight tug and knows that Lindir’s delicate fingers are threading through it. Lindir asks, sounding almost reverent, “What would you like me to do with it, my lord?”

Glorfindel thinks a moment, then decides: “Whatever you think should look best.” Obviously, Lindir has excellent taste. His own hair is skillfully done, with two braids drawn to the back and twisting together, and Elrond’s is always perfect. Lindir begins splitting Glorfindel’s hair into separate sections—he can feel different strands being gathered. It’s a pleasant feeling; he’s always enjoying having his hair played with.

For a long moment, the two of them sit in silence, while the birds sing and minstrels strum their harps in the distance. The gardens are relatively empty, though others come and go amongst the buildings. It’s a warm, cloudless day, absolutely lovely. There was a point when Glorfindel was sure nothing could ever match the splendor of the city he once left, but now he knows that there is still beauty in Middle Earth. He feels it poignantly as Lindir braids his hair. 

Then he hears a soft, familiar sound, and realizes that Lindir is humming. Glorfindel pulls to attention. He shuts out the rest of the background noise, focusing in solely on Lindir’s voice. When Lindir begins to quietly sing, Glorfindel is sure of it. 

He jerks around, so suddenly that Lindir cuts off with a yelp. Glorfindel’s hair goes flying out of his hands. But hair is the least of Glorfindel’s current worries. He looks at Lindir, staring in disbelief, and murmurs, “You are him.”

Lindir tilts his pretty head. “I am?”

“You are the minstrel who sings below my window every morning.”

Lindir’s cheeks instantly flare red. He hangs his head, hiding it behind a dark curtain of silken hair. He mumbles, “I am sorry, my lord, if I have disturbed your rest. I will relocate—”

“No, no, you misunderstand—I adore it! I have long wondered who it was making such incredible music, but you were always finished and gone by the time that I arose from bed.”

Lindir blinks up at Glorfindel as though he can’t believe it. Glorfindel reaches out and collects Lindir’s hands in his. They’re incredibly _soft_—it’s clear that he’s never held a sword before. He’s a gorgeous, talented songbird who should never have to know the terror of battle. He’s precisely the sort of thing that Glorfindel has always wanted to protect.

Glorfindel asks, “Would you sit with me at dinner tonight? I would dearly like to know you better, if you would allow me.”

Lindir tries to answer. He parts his lips, but nothing comes out. Then his mouth splits into a smile, so wide that it dimples his cheeks, and his eyes twinkle with it. He tries again, but before he can release any words, Erestor’s voice is calling, “Lindir!”

Lindir startles so badly that he nearly falls off the bench in his hurry to turn around. Then he stumbles to his feet, bowing to Elrond’s chief advisor. Erestor smoothly informs him, “Lord Elrond is looking for you.”

“Of course,” Lindir splutters. “I will be there in an instant.” Erestor tightly nods.

Lindir turns back to Glorfindel, his bottom lip caught in his teeth, and he worries it before sighing, “I... I will see you tonight, my lord?”

“Please,” Glorfindel chimes, “call me Glorfindel.”

Lindir smiles. It’s absolutely stunning. Then he bows and hurries off, leaving Glorfindel’s heart racing in his wake.


End file.
